Self-Sufficient--Or Just Too Proud?

I would like to believe that my stubborn independence is due to my DNA. That my genes are the reason why, at 3 a.m., instead of calling a friend to take me to the emergency room, I dialed 911.

Why would I expect anybody else to do what I could arrange for myself, even if insurance didn't cover it?

Would my Mississippi great grandparents on my father's side ever have expected such help? All they had was hope and guts but still they claimed their government land during the brutal 1800s Oklahoma land runs. And on those 80 acres, they birthed nine children, grew corn and cotton, raised hogs and chickens and picked and canned wild blackberries. Their homesteader existence was reaped and sowed on indomitable self-sufficiency.

But also on common sense--which is why my wishful thinking about my DNA doesn't hold water.

In my great grandparents' time people had to be practical, so they understood the value of neighborliness--not just because it was the kind thing to do, but also because it was crucial to survival. If someone needed his strawberries harvested, my grandmother and her siblings were called on to pick them and were paid in berries instead of cash.

Connectedness was as vital as each person's independence. The two went hand in hand, creating a community that was stronger than the individuals alone. It took great strength to be self-reliant, but it also took strength to stifle pride and ask for help when needed.

Three generations later, community connectedness necessarily faded as my father pursued an upwardly mobile corporate career that uprooted his family regularly. So I never witnessed my parents ask for help when I was growing up--especially not at 3 a.m. What they thought they could handle amongst our family, they handled. What they believed they could afford to pay for, they bought.

Consequently, we didn't borrow sugar from a neighbor or hire a therapist when someone was down. But we did pay housekeepers and hairdressers for their services and, briefly, a cook--until my mother discovered the woman fried everything and my father had high cholesterol.

And of course we hired movers. By the time I was 16, we'd lived in three countries, six cities and nine residences.

Constant displacement became so natural that between the ages of 21 and 29--before I settled into the condominium that my husband and I now occupy--I moved eight more times on my own. Two were cross-country, five included a truckload of furniture, and each time I paid professionals to help me. The one exception was after college I asked a brother to drive my car from Pennsylvania to California and, two years later, a college roommate's parents to help sell it. But I was so uncomfortable requesting help outside my family, I'm ashamed to say, that my gratitude was overwhelmingly disproportionate to their generosity--as if denying their assistance made it somehow not real.
Recently, when I told close friends what happened that night at 3 a.m., their reactions were much the same: "Why didn't you call me?" One friend, I was surprised, was even angry.

But I remember how sick I was. I'd been throwing up so much I was disoriented from depleted sodium and potassium. Even still I defaulted to familiar and called a service for help.

That was three years ago; I'd do things differently today.

My self-reliance--and my ability to pay for help--wasn't a sign of strength. At least, it wasn't that night. It was a weakness that looked deceitfully good on the outside but deep down really wasn't. It separated me from the people I don't want to be separated from.

Not that it's easy asking for help. When I've exhausted my resources and I'm at my most vulnerable, the last thing I want sometimes is for others to know.

But humility softens my edges, makes me more pliable and opens me up to the opportunity to grow, which I need.

It also reminds me how equally vulnerable every one of us is--and keeps me from being such a proud pain in the you-know-what.

Besides, who would want to deal with an ambulance if they didn't absolutely have to?

Defending My Character The Not-So-Good Way

It is said that character is much easier kept than recovered. Maybe that's why I pounced on my friend the other day when she said something about me I thought was untrue.

But it was like attacking a mouse with a nuclear bomb. There are gentler ways to fend off possibly harmful things--which cause less damage to the mouse and to myself.

What this friend did, actually, was try to pay me a compliment. Well, she thought it was a compliment. I didn't. She said I said something two years ago that encouraged her to make a positive change in herself.

She couldn't remember exactly what I said or what it was that she changed, but from what she could recall, I had begun by confessing one of my shortcomings in front of our weekly luncheon group. And then--and this is what got my ire up--she said I said, "Someone else here has the same shortcoming."

I was stunned. "I would never say that!" I said--or shrieked. I'm not sure which.

Now, the reason I believed I would never say such a thing was because I try to live my life in a manner that will cause me the least guilt and the most serenity. For that reason, I try to say what I mean, mean what I say and not say it mean--in other words, communicate my feelings clearly but gently.

Publicly accusing some anonymous person of having a shortcoming is not clear and gentle communication--even if it does lead to good consequences. It's miscommunicating and it's mean. Besides, other people's behavior is not my business. My only business, as they say, is what's inside my own Hula-hoop.

Unfortunately, before I knew better I did miscommunicate. A lot. That's what can happen when you're afraid to express how you feel or you don't know how you feel--you speak vaguely and aren't aware of your motives, and it can sometimes be hurtful.

Years ago, if someone disagreed with something I said, instead of telling them I felt hurt or judged or attacked, I sometimes retaliated by criticizing their own belief or behavior. It was an aggressive, unfiltered, defensive response, which only created a circle of anger.

But getting back to my friend's comment. I knew she was trying to compliment, not hurt me. It felt so untrue, though, and I felt so powerless against my other friends believing her that I'm sure smoke would have been puffing out of my ears had I been a cartoon character.

After she left, I was still so upset that I turned to another friend at the table and asked, "How would you feel if someone said you said something you were 100 percent certain you didn't say?"

My friend smiled at my pathetically contorted question and then replied, “Well...I guess I couldn't be 100 percent certain."

It was definitely not what I wanted her to tell me, and it took a couple of hours for me to squelch my pride and admit it, but I knew she was right. No human--and yes, that included me--was perfect.

Even if my mind is thinking one thing, my mouth can be saying something else. Not purposely, but because I don't function at 100 percent capacity. No human does.

No matter how carefully I try to communicate clearly, I may not. The words may come out wrong or other people may not receive them as I intend. Even friends.

The only thing I can do is try not to hurt people while I'm being less than perfect. And for starters, that would mean improving my delivery the next time I think I need to stick up for myself.

"If I did say that, I wish I hadn't" or "I didn't mean to" would have been a lot more truthful and less confrontational than all guns firing at my friend.

As soon as I got home, I called and apologized and she accepted.

Let's hope the next time I consider speaking up for myself I at least have more humility--and a cork handy.

QUESTION: When you speak up for yourself, do you do it gently, with a humble mind and, if not, why?

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